


beacon

by spira



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4289082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spira/pseuds/spira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU fic largely set in and around New York City. Multiple denizens and visitors find themselves strangely interlinked when a bizarre light shines in the sky one night, signalling the beginning of strange occurrences across the city. Each chapter will be told from the perspective of a particular character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beacon

Dorian lowered his eyes, sidestepping past a familiar looking young man — maybe he was in his economics class, did he sit right next to him? — before he felt a light bristle on his arm. It was the boy. Despite being clearly older than he was, he could only think of this person as a ‘boy’. Maybe it was his hairless, pallid face, or the fact that he’d never seen him wearing anything other than basketball shorts. Either way, it killed any interest he could have in him as a person.

“Yo,” A crooked smile.

“’Yo’ is how you choose to greet me? And here I was thinking 90s nostalgia had died several years ago.”

 This garners a soft, staccato chuckle from the boy.

“You sit next to me in our English seminar, right?” Wrong class entirely. Perhaps he was thinking of another passive trust fund kid who never brought a pen to class.

Regardless, he really did not want to talk to this boy.

“Yes, yes, Kerouac was a loser and Walker is so inspirational indeed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some studying to do at the punch bowl.” Dorian turns on his heel and makes way over to the refreshments in one swift motion, pushing past body after sweaty body. He can hear the voice of the boy — was his name Kyle? Kieran? Not that it mattered. — vaguely sifting through the malaise of the room, leaving him unfazed and even thirstier.

Finally reaching the corner with the too small fold out table, complete with an overly long red table sheet, Dorian looked down to the punch, neutrality masking his disgust. Was this the best NYU students could do? Kool aid spiked with cheap vodka? It could at least be expensive vodka. No, that would be a waste. Why not at least some wine? He was growing tired of cheap parties, he thought, as he dipped himself a cup of punch.

And another.

Soon, another.

He sure was getting slammed fast lately. Maybe it was his growing distaste for speaking to anyone at these functions. Maybe it was the stress. God, the stress. He wasn’t sure why he even bothered drinking lately, given that dismal thoughts about his school life began to stew around during his whole buzz.

“Goddamn.. Trust fund dipshits..” Sometimes, when Dorian got a little too sloshed, his thoughts became erratic, and he’d speak in stream of consciousness. This usually ended badly for him. “If my father had just listened.. I’d be just like them,  wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t have to worry about my damned GPA, which, while perfect, has become a point of contention, I—“ Dorian felt a pulsing — something — in his throat. Here it came. When the metaphorical vomit spilled so, soon, would the real vomit.

Dorian grabbed onto his throat, as if somehow that would keep it at bay, and felt a foreign hand — a very firm one — wrap around his shoulder. It wasn’t his hand. Was it? No, he only had two, and they were both busy. He looked up to the hand’s owner to see a very large man. Before he could say anything, his baritone boomed through his ears. His drunken hypersensitivity recoiled a bit, trying his hardest to process what it was he said.

“Perhaps we should get you to a different room. A bathroom, for example.”

Despite his lack of mental and physical faculties at the moment, and even with the mass of vomit incubating in the recess of his esophagus, Dorian managed to get out a quip.

“I don’t do drugs or glory holes, I’m afraid.”

The man — he was a _man_ , clearly older than Dorian by at least 5 years or so and probably not a student — chuckled. Chuckled may have been to dainty of a word. It was a deep, hearty roar, like a primal being amused by the trivialities of modern youth. Regardless of Dorian’s rather weak protest, the man moved his hand purposefully under Dorian’s armpit, lifting him ever so slightly and guiding him to a room presumed to be a bathroom. The man sat him down at the toilet, kneeling and helping to lean him over the seat.

“Go ahead.”

“What? No. I’m not doing this with you standing here—“ Dorian barely managed to finish this thought before it poured from his mouth and into the toilet seat. And again. And again. Damn, maybe they did splurge on the vodka. After the third wave, the man loosens his grip on Dorian as he falls back to lean against the bathtub, fatigued. His breath shortens as he tries to regain his lungs’ cooperation. He briefly is worried there might be flecks in his moustache, but he doesn’t have the energy to life his arm to wipe it off.

“Would you like to leave before you embarrass yourself anymore?”

The man’s voice continued to shake the room. Dorian was dizzy. He wanted to sleep.

“I’m not fucking you, if that’s what you want.” There’s a bite to Dorian’s slurred speech this time.

“That’s not what I meant, but let’s not take it off the table just yet,” The man moved to lift Dorian once again, though Dorian waved him off, standing on his own. He’s shaky, but he managed to maintain a center of gravity. “Let’s get you some coffee. It may make you feel a bit better.”

Dorian didn’t know why, but he found himself on the streets of NYC shortly after.

* * *

 

“ _Iron Bull_ is not a name. It’s a poor attempt at a shoddy porn moniker, at best.” Dorian lazily took a sip of his coffee, looking at the uneaten donut that lay on the counter the man he had met only an hour or so ago had bought him. He hardly liked donuts. At least, he didn’t when he was choosing to be contrary.

“It’s actually _The_ Iron Bull. I feel it has more of an effect that way.”

Dorian briefly wondered if this person was real. He looked him over for a moment, actually taking in his features for the first time since he had met him. He had dark skin, indicative of a Middle Eastern descent, and gnarly tattoos unlike any he had seen in real life. On National Geographic, maybe, but NYU students opted for the less extreme, like edgy wrist tattoos or ostensibly ‘nerdy’ quotes from their favorite space opera. He was attractive, but in an intimidating way; some of his sheltered peers might refer to him as ‘exotic’, but Dorian knew a term like that was insulting and telling of someone’s little experience with others. His arms — wow, his arms were huge — had scars mottled across them, too erratic to be any strange, alt-y scarification work.

If anyone were to be named The Iron Bull, it would make sense it would be this man.  

“Why were you at that party?”

“Sometimes there are attractive attendees at your little gatherings.”

Dorian scoffed.

“You were _cruising_ at a college party?” He couldn’t say it wasn’t smart, but it was a bit creepy.

“Not necessarily. It’s a good way to understand how you all work.” Dorian wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that. “Plus, it’s nice just to look, too. Usually _I’m_ the one who’s engaged. People like you become bold after some liquor. I assume it’s because they’re chickenshit without it.”

“What do you mean _people like me?_ ” There goes Dorian’s bad assumption habit.

“Americans. New Yorkers. Students. The list can go on.”

Dorian scowled.

“Well, I apparently failed to meet the criteria. _You_ were the one who engaged _me._ ”

Bull nodded, taking a large bite of his donut — he got a pink one with little star sprinkles.

“Yes, because I thought you were hot. I think you’ll appreciate my help by the morning.”

Dorian didn’t know if he should fume or blush. He chose, instead, to get quiet. Time passed as he nursed his unfulfilling cup of coffee, looking to the rather bored looking workers, to the streets outside. It had begun to snow while they had chatted. This would make the walk home all the more fun. Hopefully, he’d be able to shake this guy off before he left — though the notion of walking home alone at 2 AM did unsettle him.

As Dorian went to speak, he was interrupted by a worker behind the counter gasping, pointing outside and shouting repetitive interjections like ‘Look! Whoa!’. The duo careened their heads out the window, both of their eyes widening like dinner plates. A light — more like a beacon — was illuminating the dead sky, almost like an alien was being beamed back to their mothership. It was subtle, but if you stared at it long enough, it seemed to stain your mind with its image. Moments later, it began to fade away, and the two slowly looked at each other. They were silent for a hot minute.

“Would you mind, terribly, walking me home?”


End file.
